


A lesson in cartography

by goldleaf1066



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Desk Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Gratuitous Smut, I'm not sorry, M/M, MANFIC, PWP, Slash, is this tithe porn or map porn, literally just porn, what if someone actually reads this, what's accurate characterisation precious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldleaf1066/pseuds/goldleaf1066
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day-to-day administration of the realm is not always easy, or interesting. Faramir tries to help. Aragorn gets distracted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A lesson in cartography

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheFierceBeast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/gifts).



> This is basically the fault of TheFierceBeast, for encouraging me if nothing else :P It's PWP, though you'll see I gamely tried to entice some semblance of a storyline in there. Tried. (I wouldn't get one's hopes up.)
> 
> (Also I apologise for all the glaring errors in geography etc., this kind of wasn't really meant to be a seriously accurate work of fiction or anything.)

Here he comes now, striding into the little office with an unexplained sheet of parchment rolled tightly under one arm, his free hand splaying over his midsection as he sketches a short, but still infuriatingly formal, bow, hair bouncing.

"Faramir! What brings you here so early?" It's barely gone eight bells and were it not for Faramir's ebullient expression and general early-bird cheer Aragorn might find it in his sleep-longing heart to grow cross with him. He's told him to stop bowing when it's just the two of them; having a man whose inheritance was originally the all-but-titled position Aragorn now holds bending the knee so readily to his very usurper makes Aragorn feel a little strange to say the least.

"Do you remember our conversation yestereve?" Faramir asks, eyes positively glittering with anticipation, like a child whose vague etchings they cannot wait to show to their elders, certain of praise.

It was some rather lugubriously tedious discussion about tithes, Aragorn recalls, inwardly sighing. "I do. Have you come up with a solution to our conundrum?" The puzzle in question was to do with mismanagement in general, something Denethor had probably let slip over the years but that Aragorn didn't dare make criticism of in front of Faramir. Due to lack of enforcement, a confusion had arisen between the land owned by two neighbouring farmers in the northern end of the Pelennor; indistinct borders meant a dispute had erupted over who owned and owed what and the farmers themselves had had to be summoned, with some difficulty and requiring separate rooms, to the citadel itself to be heard out. It was a gods' blessing, Aragorn thought, that an invitation from Prince Imrahil to tour and inspect the harbour and port-side of his seaside domain had arrived by messenger that very morning; the king had, with deep regret, informed Faramir that he would give his best wishes to the steward's uncle and ride off safe in the knowledge that the quarrelling farmers would be heard and dealt with fairly in his absence.

That had been three days ago. On his return to the White City, Aragorn had been wholeheartedly irked that the whole thing had yet to blow over. Did it really matter? Doesn't this only concern two fields? Aragorn could live without a few sacks of potatoes, he was quite certain.

 _Oh, oh no_ , Faramir had assured him. It was much more complicated than that, for you see these farmers were of two very old families, generation upon generation of whom had tilled the land and paid tribute to Minas Tirith in bounty and in dearth, and furthermore, the borders themselves were of particular significance because you see, the tree-line, here, Aragorn, are you following?

He'd drifted off, of course, not quite into sleep but his eyes had misted over and the tapestry hanging behind Faramir's head had become the most interesting needlework known to man, elf or dwarf. Faramir was holding his hands up in some awkward visualisation of the angle of the land-boundaries or some such and Aragorn had held his own palm aloft and demanded that he be allowed to go to bed.

And that's when Faramir had smiled, and nodded in deference, and said eight words that made Aragorn's stomach plummet in despair.

"I'll see if I can find a map."

 

"What am I looking at?"

 _The_ map, clearly, but the scale is large and the king yet newly appointed and he hasn't quite memorised every ley-line, hillock and streamlet in the Reunited Kingdom. Faramir, however, apparently has.

"Here," he says, drawing his first and middle-fingers downwards along a line scrawled near the top-right hand side. He had unrolled his map not so much with undue ceremony but he was obviously rather pleased with himself, and by the gods this was _dull_ but Aragorn found that even his own grumpy demeanour was dispersed slightly by his steward's enthusiasm. Faramir only wanted to help, and Aragorn had to give him at least the chance to bore him to tears if that was what made him happy. He does like to see Faramir smile. "You can see even on this map the borders are quite vague."

"True," Aragorn says, leaning over the desk in a show of interest. The map itself was large enough to displace most of the king's belongings from the surface save for a couple of ink-wells, a candlestick and a heavy book, all reassigned to corner-weighing duty. "So," he continues, leaning on his hands, shoulder to shoulder with Faramir. "When it comes to the tithe our farmers will attest that this grey-area–" he waves his hand over the section of the map Faramir had indicated "–belongs to the other. But during the rest of the season, they will argue the opposite."

"I believe it is something very much like that, my lord."

"I see." Aragorn straightens again. Oh, let them argue, he thinks, let us forgive them the godsforsaken tithe! Faramir stays put, scrutinising some part of the landscape before him. He is devastatingly intelligent, versed in warfare and, far more interestingly, not the stuffy scholar one might expect him to be when one saw exactly how many bookshelves he had in his study alone. He has his moments, though, and this, Aragorn decides, already looking around the room distractedly, is most certainly a prime example.

Faramir rambles on, nose inches from the map. "As I tried to illustrate yesterday, the tree-line here has a rather fascinating history attached to it concerning these two farmers and their ancestors…" Aragorn finds himself studying the architrave of the desk's edge, the flowing, fluid lines of the table legs that seemed rather at odds with the citadel's simple, imperialistic style. Imported, perhaps? From the coast? From Rohan? "…the woodland itself used to come under the jurisdiction of a local sheriff, responsible for the quantity of lumber being cut and by whom it should be sold…" That rug is looking rather worn, a threadbare path down the middle that tells of this office's history of room-pacing occupants. Aragorn hides a yawn behind his hand and dusts himself down, realising that his somewhat sloppy state of dress puts him to shame when compared to Faramir's effort; a king in plain shirt and trews, nothing too scandalous, but Faramir is wearing his steward's apparel – was it? Some dark velvets he looks good in, anyway – and Aragorn catches himself frowning at his own feet: there is dried mud all over his boots. "…and would you believe that this sheriff at the time was the second-cousin of this farmer's maternal aunt; listen to this–" Faramir always seems so presentable, Aragorn thinks, having now completely lost the thread of Faramir's interminable diatribe; a man of the wild he is too, captain of the Ithilien rangers no less, but Aragorn feels not so much _scruffy_ beside him but certainly a little less groomed. He wonders if Faramir is vain, and decided that he likely is not; he's never immaculate, but though his hair is often awry it's also usually clean, his dress reasonably cared for– his boots free of dirt, Aragorn notices with an inward sigh of mild resentment. His gaze trails upward along Faramir's calves; his surcoat is knee-length but splits front and rear, and Aragorn can see the shadow of his thigh, the pert curve of his backside but a mere suggestion. There is a very long moment during this prolonged study in which Aragorn slowly realises Faramir has stopped talking, a moment in which his body begins doing very strange things like releasing snakes in his belly and lighting fires in his cheeks. He looks up. Faramir is staring back at him from over his shoulder, still leaning on the table.

"Something caught your fancy back there, my king?"

Well, _yes_ , but what can Aragorn say to _that_? "Sorry," he mumbles, hands on the map again. "Where were we?"

Faramir flashes him a look that could mean anything: amusement, slyness, collusion; it could simply be that he knows he now has the upper hand. Aragorn bites his lip hard and hopes Faramir doesn't notice the colour in his face. He could have been looking at the damned table legs, no need to be presumptive! There is a pause, and Faramir turns back to the map; perhaps it was pity that Aragorn saw in his eyes, for he smiles to himself and pushes his hair behind his ears. "It's a bit early for all of this, isn't it?" When his hand returns to the tabletop his fingers brush against the king's in a way that Aragorn mightn't normally construe as anything other than clumsiness, were it not for the fact he knows just how accurate an archer Faramir is, how precise.

"We might wait until after breakfast before continuing; what say you?" Aragorn looks hopeful; forgetting mortification for a moment he's still quite keen to postpone this discussion in perpetuity. Faramir nods, straightening.

"An interval, then," he says, reaching to push the book from the corner of the map furthest from him. In order to do so, his hand lands on Aragorn's waist for balance, a wholly unusual set-up, and one, Aragorn knows, unable to stop the pedantic voice in his head that points out that _he dares lay a hand upon his king!_ , is really nothing to do with remaining upright at all. Faramir's fingers fan out, rumpling his shirt, his thumb draws a semi-circle. The book is still on the map, and Aragorn watches as his own hand, rising to his midsection ostensibly to pry Faramir off of him diverts off-course seemingly without his knowledge and snakes along Faramir's forearm, upwards to his shoulder, further still until he can feel the roughness of an unshaven throat beneath his fingertips. Almost immediately Faramir abandons the book and stands upright, moving closer. His hand rubs soothing patterns against Aragorn's hip. There's a delightful shyness about him; he's not about to initiate anything at all, but he knows that Aragorn knows what's happening here. Dilating pupils darken his eyes, the flicker of a tongue over his lower lip: he's waiting for Aragorn to kiss him.

Aragorn is halfway there before he catches himself; should he? He can't pretend this is about avoiding tithes any more. But Faramir is lifting his face to his as he cups the back of his auburn head, it's too late, he's kissing him, he's kissing him madly. He reaches down and around with his other hand; yes, quite pert indeed.

The first casualty is the candlestick, rolling off the table and clattering somewhere out of sight as Aragorn grabs Faramir and heaves him onto the desk, tongues entwining as Faramir lies back and pulls Aragorn down with him. Those archer's fingers knot themselves in Aragorn's hair; there's a telltale stiffness already between his legs that Aragorn only discovers when he runs his hand along Faramir's inner thigh without thinking. Faramir almost shoves him off in his attempt to remove his belt, lose his surcoat, grant further access to Aragorn's touch and Aragorn laughs and pulls his struggling fingers from the buckle, planting soft kisses between the knuckles. "There's no rush," he says, undoing the belt himself. He looks up again, tilts his head sideways and this kiss is deep, slow, wide-jawed with cheek-pressed noses. The belt falls away and he forgets all about it; Faramir tastes too good.

"The door," Faramir manages eventually, breath flaring against Aragorn's cheek. Aragorn looks at him in confusion for a heated moment, Faramir's knees knocking against his thighs, and then understands; a complicit nod is shared with Faramir and he turns away, pacing to the door and turning the key in the lock. Glancing back, he once again meets Faramir's eyes as they peer rearwards at him as he bends over the map; this time however he has conquered his breeches, now pooling around his ankles, his surcoat is hiked up over one hip and the slicing edge of a wicked grin is just visible over his shoulder. Aragorn feels his pulse hammering between his legs, and though the urge to rush back and bury himself in Faramir is deadly it's with a lip bitten white with restraint that he makes his way back, stepping with consciously measured slowness toward him, fingers sliding the buckle of his own belt open, loosening the lacings, inviting the cool air of the room to embrace his exposed flesh.

"I can guess what _you_ want," he says, and Faramir's reply is the slight rise of his brow; the smile now predatory, teeth flashing, wild but silent. His elbows rest on the map – a dreadful show of table manners were this supper-time – with hands palm-down. Closer now, and Aragorn can see the muscles of Faramir's thighs quivering already with the notion of it and then his own hands are upon him, sliding either side of his waist, fingertips hooking over hipbones and the desperation to haul him backwards and to drive forwards and into him is almost overwhelming. Faramir's head drops, his hair skates over the inky Anduin, the topography of North Ithilien smudges beneath his forehead. Aragorn closes his eyes and moves his hand to discover that the camber of Faramir's cock fits quite adequately in his grasp. He's twitching, Aragorn can feel the hot thrum of blood against his cupped palm. Faramir backs into him, as eager now as he was when discussing the very map he is now intimately examining. A lesson in cartography, Aragorn thinks rakishly, before abandoning Faramir's erection completely in favour of a little map-making of his own. Tracing the distance between each constellation of freckles with a finger- and then tongue-tip makes Faramir keen softly, wordless blissful noises – _this is too much, don't stop_ – but it's when that tongue dips briefly into the valley between Faramir's buttocks that he bucks against the table and groans Aragorn's name.

The king pauses. His hands are splayed upon each cheek, gripping gently and firmly, and from this vantage point Faramir is enticing to the point of insanity; pearls of pre-come already bead Aragorn's cock from merely imagining how tight his arse must be. Aragorn worries for a moment when he realises he is hardly going to last five thrusts before he spends himself, and then he worries, suddenly, that perhaps this isn't the most dignified way to begin one's morning: Faramir bent over his desk, urging him by name to fuck him over a map of the realm. The symbolism isn't lost on Aragorn, but his blood is on fire, and the star maps on Faramir's lower back draw him back to the task at hand. He urges Faramir's legs further apart with a touch, and kneels down behind him. Penance, he tells himself, for the sacrilege to come.

 

Something else falls off the desk and clatters out of sight, but neither men take notice in the midst of it all. They go at it hard: the table legs are skidding across the floor inch by inch. Faramir is holding on with one arm –whether to halt the travels of the desk or to keep himself upright – and the other is delving between his legs, stroking in a rhythm almost matched to that of Aragorn behind him, within him, on top of him. The king pounds into him, it is fast, it is deep. Faramir's free hand tightens into a fist and the Pelennor crumples and diminishes, swathes of land vanishing into newly made fault-lines as his fingers scrabble for purchase. He turns his head to the side: Aragorn can see his gritted teeth, the jut of his lower jaw, the fact his eyes are open, peering around at him from the corners of the sockets when not rolling up into his skull. Aragorn looks down and watches himself disappear into him; the only sounds are the rumple of paper, the scrape of wood against stone, the hurried, muted applause of flesh against flesh. Faramir is tight; after spitting on his fingers Aragorn found it difficult to get the third digit in as Faramir writhed in what was probably discomfort, but he had only urged him on when the king withdrew in concern. He had relaxed, and Aragorn's pubic hair tickles Faramir's backside now with every thrust. He's almost there, he can feel it, he's on the edge. Faramir makes a strange noise and jolts without warning; the path of the Anduin now glistens with his seed, and the younger man shudders and clenches and Aragorn isn't too far behind him. He comes and slumps onto Faramir's back, and they rest there, half-bent over the desk and the ruined map, catching their breath.

Eventually Faramir squirms beneath him and Aragorn staggers upright, pulling out of him and allowing him space. Faramir looks down at the table. Aragorn glances around for something to clean himself with but it's Faramir's laugh that distracts him.

"We shall need to find a way of replacing this without incriminating ourselves."

So blasé is Faramir, nonchalant with his undergarments still keeping his ankles warm. Aragorn smirks. "I think that falls under your jurisdiction, my friend."

A blonde eyebrow rises. "How so?"

Aragorn shuffles around to the other side of the desk, holding his breeches up with one hand. "I do believe those are _your_ spendings that now so elegantly mimic the path of the river; mine are elsewhere." In a drawer he finds an old handkerchief, and in lieu of anything better suited, utilises it before putting himself away. Faramir gestures toward it once Aragorn has finished, and he throws it to him, _elsewhere_ in this case being the backs of the younger's thighs where gravity has done its work, a cooling salt-trickle that he sees to without turning his head. _He has done this before_ , Aragorn thinks, _but with whom? And over which region of Gondor?_

"I suppose I should dispose of this too, then?" Faramir is holding up the unfortunate 'kerchief.

"I'm not going to wipe my nose with it now, if that is what you mean."

Faramir laughs and finally deigns to sort out his clothing. As the last whorls of coppery belly-hair disappear beneath Faramir's shirt Aragorn feels a note of vague disappointment resound within him, of loss. _You want him, you want him again. Front-wise, maybe, next time. On a bed. On your bed. In you._

_Next time?_

It seems as if they aren't going to talk about it. Faramir rolls up the map, careful to conceal any indicators of anything untoward, the handkerchief presumably stuffed within. He runs his fingers through his hair; tousled now, but Aragorn finds it becoming and doesn't tell him of the cowlick that sticks up behind his left ear. He is desperately trying to think of something to say that would make Faramir either stay longer or consider the possibility of perhaps – maybe, if he wanted to – doing something like this again. And he doesn't mean the discussion about tithes.

"The tithes!" Aragorn shouts suddenly, startling Faramir who had half-turned away toward the door. "We've not sorted them out!"

"You didn't seem that interested before." Faramir's tone is wry, teasing, on the right side of formality now, but only just. The lightness of his tone is as much of an invitation Aragorn is going to get; once he crosses the threshold to the room the chance will be gone forever in the mists of impropriety.

"You distracted me," Aragorn blurts, and Faramir folds his arms across his chest, the remains of the map under an arm. Aragorn would chide him for the look he is giving them but the younger man suddenly provides the opening Aragorn was desperate for, figuratively this time. "Shall I come back later once I've found an unspoiled map?"

Aragorn finds some decorum, somewhere, straightening. "Later, yes. This evening perhaps?"

"Your chambers?" Devastatingly intelligent indeed, or perhaps just as hungry for more of this unforeseen fare as the king, and Aragorn finds no fault in either. "We'll see who distracts whom."

He's unlocked the door and is almost out of it before Aragorn realises what he's just proposed, and he launches himself after Faramir, covering the distance between them in three long strides. "Wait," he says, and Faramir turns again, facing him now from the other side of the doorway. They both know what will happen in the king's rooms, no doubt about that now. But still, duties were duties: possibly best to get the dull bit out of the way so there was more time for…distractions. "What are we going to do about those farmers?"

Faramir leans in close, that delicious grin just a notion twitching in the corner of his mouth. "Oh, bugger them. Which I suppose is what we did, more or less." He kisses Aragorn hard without checking for onlookers, a wholly different man to the one who bounded into the office not an hour previously, the one Aragorn wrongly presumed would find nothing to heat his blood more than the unbroken spine of a newly copied book. Aragorn thinks he rather likes this side of him, indeed, the absence now of any _my lords_ has been rather refreshing to say the least. And the sex was good. Ridiculously so.

"Later, then?" Aragorn almost laughs at the hope he hears in his own voice, as if Faramir is going to renege on their plans with that glint in his eye.

"I look forward to it." A knowing glance and then he's gone, halfway along the corridor, hair bouncing. Aragorn leans in the doorway and watches him leave, a grin splitting his features long after Faramir has disappeared from view.


End file.
